by Jane Igharo
“Star Trek,” Rafael says. A smirk twitches at the corners of his lips. “It’s a Star Trek reference.”
“Yeah. Of course. I knew that.” Frankly, I don’t know the difference between the two sci-fi series—not really my genre. I wonder if it’s his. “Anyway, the slogan should be short and sweet.”
“What do you propose?”
“Catch the fever. It also works with the name of the product.”
“Yeah. It does.” He squints and mulls over the phrase. “I like it. A lot.”
“Great. Now, for my next idea.” I glance at my notes again. “In Nigeria, the spokesperson for this product is Genevieve Nnaji. She’s this gorgeous, talented actress. She’s a huge deal. I think we should get a beautiful, talented Western actress. Then we should mirror both actresses, from two different cultures, in the commercial and print ad.”
“How would we mirror them?” he asks, leaning forward.
“We show the audience how similar they are despite their differences. We show how they both depend on FeverRun for an energy boost. We can show them in everyday settings—going to the grocery store, going to the gym, spending time with their families. By doing this, we—”
“Find commonalities between two different cultures.”
“Exactly. Also, this method will help the product transition well into its new environment while remaining true to its origin. So? What do you think?”
His focused, steady stare is indecipherable.
Maybe he hates it. My confidence instantly plummets. “Rafael, if . . . if you don’t like it, we could—”
“It’s brilliant.”
“Really?”
He nods, and I grin. Confidence boost in three . . . two . . . one.
“Awesome. Because that’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, I had nothing, so—”
“I kinda saved your ass?” I bite my tongue. Shoot. Confidence overload. “I’m sorry.”
He grins, clearly not upset. “I’m starving.” He stands and loosens the black tie around his neck. “I’m going to run out and pick up something to eat. Can I get you anything?”
“Well, I am pretty hungry.” I rub my rumbling belly as if the circular movement can ease its ache for food. “But I’m not sure what I want. Why don’t you surprise me?”
“Surprise you?”
“Yep. And just so you know, I don’t like mushrooms or onions.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He grabs his wallet off the desk and strides to the door. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay. I’ll start building the presentation.” I place my fingers over the keyboard but pause before hitting the keys. “Rafael!”
He stops and turns around—a single figure in the isolated space. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just that it doesn’t look too good out there. The storm and all. So be careful. Okay?”
He glances at the window, and when our eyes meet again, he nods, a silent assurance before walking away.
* * *
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER HE LEAVES, HE RETURNS WITH A brown paper bag. I smell the ingredients in the Chinese food he’s bought—ginger, basil, chili pepper, sweet soy sauce. When he places a takeout box in front of me, I open the cardboard container and spoon a portion of chicken fried rice into my mouth.
“Mmm, this is delicious,” I say while chewing. “Thanks, Rafael.”
“You’re welcome.” He digs chopsticks into his box of chow mein. “Glad you like it.”
For an hour, we alternate between eating and working. He listens to each idea I propose and builds on them. He’s smart and insightful, and our collaboration is effortless. When I return from the kitchen with two cups of tea, he’s hunched over the computer, typing. His tie and blazer are off, and the first two buttons on his white shirt are undone. His wavy hair is messy, flopping over his forehead—no perfect side part to separate the dark strands into precise proportions. When he looks at me, I notice something oddly familiar in his eyes—a hollowness. I recognize it because I saw the same in my father’s eyes as he died.
The man who raised me was vivacious. His dark eyes were layered with secrets, stories, riddles, and mysteries. Though, as sickness consumed him, his eyes grew vacant as if his soul had been scooped out and all that was left was the vessel—the shell of a man. An intolerable amount of pain did that to him—left him empty. And I sense the same happened to Rafael somehow. Pain, too great to sustain, hollowed him out, took something from him. I’m certain of it because in his striking blue eyes, there is a deep, eerie void.
What happened? Was it loss or betrayal or heartbreak? What emptied you out?
“Azere.”
His voice pulls me out of my deep thoughts. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” I settle in the chair and extend a cup to him. “Here’s your tea.”
“Thank you.” He sips the hot beverage slowly. “We’re almost done. I’m only adding some finishing touches.”
“Oh. Great.” The digital clock on his desk reads 9:15 p.m. “I’m so ready to get outta here.”
“It’s not safe outside,” he says, setting down his cup. “Not yet. You should wait until the storm ends.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I live twenty minutes away—in one of those apartment buildings along King Street. I’ll be home in no time. Plus, I think the storm is letting up.”
As if on cue, thunder erupts suddenly, roaring and causing me to yelp and flinch. Lightning flashes; its silvery blaze rips through the black sky and emits an unearthly glow through the window. My heart is racing, but I keep a calm disposition. Casually, I flip my braids over my shoulder and arrange the pleats on my dress, faking coolness while sipping my tea.
Rafael miserably attempts to suppress a laugh by rolling his lips into his mouth. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Right.” His lips are straight now, but there’s a glint of humor in his eyes. “You know what? You still haven’t answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Yesterday, I asked why you left my hotel room without saying goodbye. You never gave me an answer.” He searches my eyes. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye, Azere?”
“Rafael.” I place the cup of tea on the table and huff. “I really don’t want to talk about that night.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because it’s hard enough that I think about kissing you every time I see you. It’s hard enough that I want to touch you. I’m just trying to deal with this crazy situation, but talking about that night makes it harder.”
The confession seemed to have surged out my mouth like water through a faucet. Now, he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
“I’m sorry. That was really inappropriate.” I stand and hesitantly grab my things, avoiding eye contact as I do. “I’m gonna go.”
“Azere, wait.” He’s at the door before I can walk through it, obstructing the exit with his large stature. “I wanted to kiss you yesterday—the instant I laid my eyes on you.” He moves forward until there’s no space between us, until his chest is pressed to mine, until his breath warms my skin and his scent fills my nostrils. “I want to kiss you now. So fucking bad.” He tilts his head, brings his lips a mere inch from mine, and takes my breath away—breathes it in, claims it as his own, a part of me now in him.
“Rafael.” The urge to touch him and be touched by him seems impossible to resist. Yet, somehow, I manage to step back, to stand separate from him, to keep my hands static at my sides, to suppress all the desires that threaten my logic. “We can’t.”
“Azere.” A low grumble sounds in his throat. “Why not? Is it because we work together?”
It’s a lot more complicated than that, but his response is
simple and reason enough for us to stay apart.
“Azere, it’s not like we report to each other. You’re not my superior and I’m not yours.”
“I know, Rafael, but I think it’s best we have a professional and totally platonic relationship. I just want to do my job without any complications. Can you respect that?”
He tousles his hair and exhales, deflating his enlarged chest. “Yeah. Of course. Our relationship can be strictly . . . um . . . professional.” It seemed to have taken him a lot of effort to get those words out. “And I won’t bring up that night anymore.”
“Thanks, Rafael.”
“Now, will you stay? At least until the storm lets up. I don’t want you driving in this weather, Azere. Come on. Sit.” He carefully ushers me back into the chair as though afraid I might run if he’s inattentive.
I retake my seat and resume sipping my tea. Together we look over the work we’ve done and finalize the presentation. By 9:55 p.m., the rain stops beating against the window, and the wind stops whooshing and stirring objects into the air. The storm appears to be over, but Rafael is cautious, checking several news websites, confirming the storm has indeed ended and the route to my home is safe.
He escorts me to the underground parking lot. I’m grateful for his company because the space is isolated and unsettling at night.
In my car, as I fasten my seat belt, he leans down, and his face appears in the window. I roll down the glass and inspect his fatigued eyes. I ask when he plans on going home. He doesn’t give a direct answer. He grabs my seat belt—the part that doesn’t touch the chair or my chest, the part that just sort of hangs in limbo—and tugs it as if testing its sturdiness. The action seems overly cautious, but I don’t question it. In fact, a part of me appreciates his care, his attentiveness.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” he says, his hand falling away. “Watch out for slick spots. Okay?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“And about the presentation tomorrow. You should make it.”
“Me?” I point to myself, confirming his statement.
“Yes, you. You came up with the ideas. You’ll be the best person to explain them.”
“Okay. Sure. I can do that.” I search his eyes—blue, beautiful, and hollow. “Well. Good night, Rafael.”
“Yeah. Good night, Azere. Drive safely.”
I do. I get home in one piece. I take a shower. I brush my teeth. I wrap a scarf over my braids, securing them for a routine night of tossing and turning.
In bed, I nestle under a thick duvet and inhale deeply, relishing the scent of lavender embedded in the plush fabric. A little after midnight, I say a prayer for myself and the ones I love. And then, just before I fall asleep, I say another prayer.
For him.
chapter
9
Rafael
Alone in the office, I send my dog sitter a text message, asking how Milo is doing. She replies with a picture of him curled on her lap.
With confirmation that he’s fine, I take on a new task. My fingers move against the keyboard, matching the speed at which my brain is working.
Focus, work, focus, work.
Like always, the basic mantra serves its purpose by centering my mind. Currently, the words I’m typing and reading are my sole focus—my only thought. But then my eyes land on the empty chair across from me. In an instant, another thought, a sharp thought, penetrates my mind.
Azere.
Earlier, she was sitting in that chair. I smile at the recollection.
Damn it. Focus, Rafael. Focus, work, focus, work.
The mantra has always been the driving force in my career. For years, it kept me proactive. Tonight, it loses that effect. I can’t stop thinking about her. I prioritize her over the tedious combination of words and numbers on the computer screen.
Where is she now? Did she get home safe? Is she okay?
I snatch my cell off the table. Maybe I should call to confirm she’s home, safe. When the phone chimes, however, my focus veers. It’s a video call from someone who never takes no for an answer. Declining will only provoke her to call repeatedly. To avoid that outcome, I click the green button, and my sister’s face appears on the large screen.
“Hey, big brother,” Selena says, grinning.
She’s wearing a band of flowers over her dark hair; the scarlet carnations match the color coating her lips. Her face holds my attention until my eyes move to the picturesque backdrop—the breathtaking sight of Valencia. Buildings with ancient and Gothic architecture align the seaside. Dawn dyes the sky with variations of purples, yellows, oranges, and reds. The warm hues are reflected on the rippling sea. It’s times like these, seeing the scenery, that I envy my family for spending yet another summer in Valencia with our grandmother.
“Earth to Rafael.” Selena waves her hand, signaling for my attention. “Thought you might appreciate the view. Just didn’t think you would abandon me for it.”
“Sorry.” I smile; it’s the same smile I’ve worn for years, the one meant to convince my family that I’m okay and not utterly broken. “So. How are you? Missing home yet?”
“Not really. I love it here. But how about you, Rafa? What’s it like, living in Toronto again? Is it a little weird?”
“Actually, it feels good—familiar, like home.”
“Cool.” She yawns. “Sorry. I’m exhausted. I went dancing last night. Then to a club. And then to some random house party. Pretty crazy night. I just got in. Thought we could chat before I head to bed.”
“Well, you didn’t have to call. It’s five thirty a.m. in Valencia. You should be sleeping.”
“And it’s eleven thirty p.m. in Toronto. You should be at home with your adorable dog. Instead, you’re at the office. Working. Right?” She arches an eyebrow, awaiting my response. “Rafael, why aren’t you at home?”
“Because I have work to do.”
“Right.” One finger falls on the cameo choker she prematurely inherited from our grandmother. Selena is never without the antique jewelry. She wears it with everything and rubs the pendant when deep in thought. Much like she’s doing right now. “Rafael—”
“Don’t, Selena. Don’t say what I think you’re going to say. If you do, I’ll end this call.” My finger hangs over the End button.
“Go ahead. Do it. And I’ll catch the next flight to Toronto just so I can punch you in the gut. And after you’ve recovered from my almost deadly blow, we’ll have the conversation.”
She’s twenty-six, four years younger than me, and capable of delivering threats that make me reconsider my actions. I drop my finger and tuck it under the table.
“Thought so,” she retorts. “Now. As I was about to say, I’m worried.” Her big dark eyes well up with emotions. “About you, Rafa. Mom’s worried too.”
“Mom worries, Selena. It’s what she does. And you—”
“What about me?”
“Where’s Máximo?” I ask.
“My twin is somewhere in Ibiza likely squandering his trust fund on alcohol, drugs, and prostitutes.” She rolls her eyes. “Maldito idiota.”
“Now, there’s someone you should worry about.”
“I’m going to mass on Sunday. I’ll say a prayer for him, then. That’s all I can do for that one—bid his case to God and hope for a miracle.” She shrugs. “Anyway, I really wish you were here, Rafael. With us. Abuela misses you. We all do.”
“And I miss you guys too. But I have a job, Selena.”
“Your job is your entire life, Rafael. You never take vacations or days off. It’s not healthy. Especially because you’ve been using work as a coping mechanism.”
“That isn’t true. My career has always been important to me. You know that.”
“Yeah. But it became your obsession, the center of your world after—”
“Don’t! Don’t say a
nother word! I don’t want to talk or think about it.”
But it’s too late now.
Dark memories seep into my mind like ink. I try to push them away, but one image appears and then another. There’s blood. So much blood. It’s everywhere, coating my shuddering hands, drenching her white summer dress, trickling into the chair’s thin creases. It’s everywhere.
“Rafael.” Selena’s firm voice halts the memories prone to play in a torturous, incisive loop. “It’s been three years. You’re entitled to a fresh start. That’s why you moved back to Toronto, but it looks like you’re falling into the same pattern—isolating yourself, consuming yourself with work.” She sighs. “How long are you going to live like this? How long are you going to punish yourself for what happened?” Tears settle at the rims of her round eyes. “It wasn’t your fault, Rafael. It wasn’t.”
Yes, it was. And I’ve been shouldering that guilt for three years.
“I just want you to be happy.” She rubs her teary eyes. “That’s all I want. Is there currently anything in your life, aside from your job, that makes you happy? Is there anything or anyone that gives you the slightest hint of joy?”
My eyes shift to the chair across from me, to the space Azere once occupied. I watch the spot as if she’s still there, twirling her long hair around one finger, mistaking Star Wars for Star Trek.
“Rafa.”
I look at my sister.
“Well?” she says, hope flickering in her eyes, waiting to ignite. “Anything? Anyone?”
When I say nothing, the twinkle of hope vanishes.
“I guess I’ll bid your case to God as well.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Maybe you should.”
She forces a smile that extends to half the length of her regular smile. “I should go to bed.”
“Yeah. Of course. Give Abuela a kiss for me. And tell Mom and Dad and Max I said hi.”
“We’ll be home in the fall. We’ll see you then. I love you, Rafael. You know that, right?”
“Of course, I do.” How could I ever doubt it? She’s always been there for me. I shut her out, and she kicks down the door. I push her away, and she fights her way back in. I’ve never told her, but she’s my best friend. She’s the only person who completely understands me. One day, I’ll tell her what she means to me. Tonight, I’ll keep it simple. “I love you too, Selena.”
